


The Man From K.A.I.J.U.

by buckgaybarnes



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: 1960s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Bickering, Canon-Typical Aliens, Flirting, M/M, One Shot, despite title not actually an AU of the tv series/2015 movie, spies at a cafe....what will they repress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22911955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes
Summary: Hermann has a rendezvous with his contact at K.A.I.J.U., the perpetually tardy and not-at-all mysterious Newton Geiszler.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Comments: 5
Kudos: 57
Collections: Somewhere in Time Zine





	The Man From K.A.I.J.U.

**Author's Note:**

> this is my piece from the newt/hermann historical AU zine i had a small hand in organizing the past few months, Somewhere in Time! go to the official twitter @Newman_HAU_zine to find out how to get your (virtual) hands on a digital copy :)
> 
> my little idea of a backstory for this is that newt works for a proto-X Files sort of mysterious organization and does a lot of zooming around on his stupid motorcycle investigating aliens, whereas hermann works for a 1960s version of the ppdc LMAO

**Washington, D.C. - 1966**

The cafe patio is loud, bustling, busy, the sort of place one wouldn’t dream of having a meaningful conversation within a block radius of. It’d be far too difficult to separate the words of one’s companion out from those of a dozen other diners and _their_ companions. Far too public.

It’s why it’s perfect.

Nestled in among stylish young socialites and well-dressed business types on their lunch breaks, Hermann Gottlieb (neither stylish nor young, and just shy of well-dressed) sits alone at a table, nursing a cigarette and stirring his coffee intermittently to the left and to the right in counts of ten. It’s gone cold at this point. The cup of coffee resting, untouched, across the table from him has as well.

Newton is late by nearly forty minutes. Hermann’s not sure why he expected otherwise: Newton is _always_ late. He claims that it’s a deliberate habit, one he's picked up to throw off suspicion—to purposely con anyone who may have intercepted their correspondence into believing they’ve gotten the time or place wrong—that it’s a calculated and well thought-out move on his part. _I plan ahead_ , he always says.

_You’re just lazy_ , Hermann always responds.

Hermann’s waiter is not as forgiving of Newton as Hermann is, unfortunately. This is the second time he’s stopped by in five minutes. “Will you be wanting your check then, sir?” he says, politely, but _pointedly._ The patio seats overlook the Potomac and are quite popular, especially on an autumn day as pleasant as this one; Hermann imagines there are plenty of customers clamoring for them who would happily order more than two black coffees, and who would happily boot Hermann out of here to do it. His waiter, Hermann reckons, would help them.

“Not quite,” Hermann says. “I’m waiting on a friend.”

The man sweeps away, hiding his irritation poorly—only to reveal that Newton (at last!) has been slouching behind him, one hand stuffed into his pocket, the other clutching his motorbike helmet. He nods at Hermann. “Fortune favors the brave,” he says, cryptically.

Hermann rolls his eyes and snubs out his cigarette on his empty plate. “You don’t have to use that bloody passcode every time,” he says. “Hello, Newton.”

Newton’s face splits into a grin; he takes his seat, immediately leaning so far back in it its legs creak audibly. At least he doesn't try to kick his boots up on the table like he _usually_ does. “It’s more fun with the passcode,” he says. “Anyway, this way you know for sure it’s me, and not some impostor using my face.”

“I think it’d be rather impossible to successfully masquerade as you,” Hermann says.

“Am I too charming?” Newton says. “Too cool?”

“Too irritating,” Hermann says.

Newton laughs. “I missed you, man.”

Newton has hardly changed since Hermann saw him last. His chunky browline glasses are the same, his beat-up leather jacket, his cuffed jeans, but he’s grown a fair amount of stubble that Hermann could almost mistake for the beginnings of a beard, and his hair (still stylishly greased back) is in need of a trim. Newton’s likely too overworked to care about minor grooming. That, or he just fancies himself a hippie these days. Neither would be surprising. “Hm,” Hermann says, and sniffs. (He’s missed Newton too.) “I ordered you coffee—no, don’t bother, it’s gone frigid by now.”

Newton looks between the coffee cup and his sweating glass of ice water, then scoops out a few ice cubes from the latter and deposits them into the former. He rounds it out with too-many lumps of sugar (which can hardly be dissolving) and gives it a vicious stir. “There,” he says. “Iced coffee. Groovy.”

“How modern,” Hermann says. Newton begins to poke around the table flower arrangement and examine the salt and pepper shakers. When he finishes with those, he begins to shake out his napkin. Ah—bug sweep. “I already checked,” Hermann murmurs. “It’s clear.”

“Groovy,” Newton repeats.

Hermann flicks open his lighter to start on a second cigarette, mostly because he knows how badly it gets on Newton’s nerves.

“I really am sorry I’m late this time,” Newton says. He looks around, and—adjusting his glasses, which have slipped down his freckled nose—leans across the table. “We had, uh, a little bit of a crisis this morning.”

Hermann lowers his lighter. “A crisis?” he echoes sharply.

Newton pulls a small paperback out from the inner pocket of his jacket and slides it across the table. _Amazing Stories_. 50¢. The cover features an illustration of some sort of flying saucer. “Page sixty is a really good bit,” Newton says.

The cafe patio is loud, bustling, busy, and public, but especially convenient for men like Hermann and Newton who prefer alternatives to the conspicuous manila folder typically used in their trade: anyone who’s not going on about stocks or the Beatles or Vietnam has their nose buried in a book of some sort. Hermann does question Newton’s choice of literature for today, however. Usually he brings some obscure poetry (which he hopes Hermann will like) or scientific journal (which he knows Hermann won’t like) that they can spend the rest of their luncheon debating once his message is passed along. Never pulps.

Hermann flips to page sixty and finds Newton’s pencil scrawl in the margins. _New intel from Hong Kong. Threat deemed extraterrestrial._

The pulp certainly makes sense now.

Hermann forces a small level of calm into his voice, though he can’t quite force the same level into his hands, which are trembling very badly. It’s as he feared, then. “Page sixty?” he says. “You’re—you’re certain?”

“Yep,” Newton says.

The threat in question is something Hermann wasn’t even sure _was_ a threat until now. A few months ago, the P.P.D.C.’s radars picked up something big and unidentifiable deep off in the Pacific. When questioned, both the Americans and the Soviets denied it as being either one of their submarines, and, indeed, there was nothing in particular that indicated it as a submarine in the first place. The ocean depth alone made it highly improbable. No modern technology (classified or otherwise) Hermann was aware of could possibly achieve it. So he took the liberty of, er, _outsourcing_ the case to Newton. K.A.I.J.U. knew how to deal with these sorts of things, after all, and Newton especially: he investigated similar business in Texas himself in ‘57, in New Hampshire hardly a year ago, among many other cases he alludes to in conversation with Hermann only in vague passing.

Ordinarily, Hermann would make a show of how simply _absurd_ the passage in question is, how could Newton _possibly_ agree with it, but today, he doesn’t have it in him. “With that size,” he says, “and at _those_ depths—”

“Potentially a lot more catastrophic than some stupid lights in the sky,” Newton agrees. “We got some reports around the same time of something weird off the coast of Cali. Some fishermen called it in. I mean—it _could_ be related, you know?” He shoots Hermann a grin. “Unless the Loch Ness Monster’s on fucking vacation.”

Hermann hums noncommittally and tucks the book into his blazer. He’ll need to erase Newton’s penciling when he returns to his flat, and after that, type up a report to submit immediately to Marshal Pentecost. He’ll likely be _some_ level of reprimanded for not officially requesting a rendezvous with Newton (his _source at K.A.I.J.U._ , as Hermann refers to him in his reports) beforehand, but the Marshal rarely questions Hermann’s judgment on these sorts of matters. “I will pass it on,” he says. “Thank you.”

“No sweat,” Newton says. “Hey, listen, I gotta split soon, but I was wondering if you gave my offer any more thought.”

Hermann coughs, uncomfortably, and casts his eyes to the table; he was hoping Newton wouldn’t bring that up today. “Ah—Newton,” he says, “I am _flattered_ —and it’s not as if I wouldn’t like to have you as a colleague, far from it—it’s only, well, I’m quite tied up with things at the moment, and I hardly think they’d take kindly to me _quitting_ to run off and join—”

Newton snorts. “Not _that_ offer, man. The other one.” His grin returns, though markedly more flirtatious, and (glancing around to ensure they’re not being watched, lowering his voice) he leans in again for distinctly unprofessional purposes. “You, me, dinner, dancing.”

_Oh._ That offer. Hermann flushes, and not just because (thankfully hidden by the tablecloth) Newton’s boot is suddenly brushing against his ankle. “I don’t,” he stammers, “ah, _dance_ , Dr. Geiszler. And I hardly think anywhere would… _accommodate_ our sort.”

“I know some places that would,” Newton says. He winks. “Or you could just come back to my pad—I got some new records you’d hate, and you could smoke out my houseplants. This Saturday?” He bats his eyelashes.

Everyone is allowed to be a little selfish every now and then, Hermann reasons, even men like him, and especially when there are _extraterrestrials_ paddling about in the Pacific. He smiles. Perhaps even coyly _._ “Oh, alright. But I’m not riding anywhere on that bloody bike of yours.”

“We’ll walk,” Newton promises.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on twitter at hermanngaylieb, and tumblr at hermannsthumb


End file.
